“Oh, that wasn’t necessary; I had the authority to deal with it.”
“What do you mean? You just admitted that as city marshal you have no authority outside the city limits.”
“Ah, yes, that’s as the city marshal. But you see, I am also a Deputy United States Marshal. And it was as a Deputy U.S. Marshal that I handled the case.”
“U.S. Marshal? You are a Deputy U.S. Marshal?” Poindexter asked in a tight, choked voice.
“Yes. Oh, didn’t I tell you, when I arrived?”
“No.”
“It must have just slipped my mind.”
“Well, at any rate, I’m glad the young Cravens girl is back home. The poor girl must have gone through quite an ordeal. Do you have any idea who kidnapped her?”
Falcon leaned back against the doorjamb that led into the dining room, and he crossed his arms across his chest.
“Funny you would ask me that,” he said.
“Why would you say it is funny?”
“Because I figured you already knew.”
“What kind of damn fool response is that? How is it that I’m supposed to already know?”
“Because it was two of your deputies who did it.”
“Are you telling me that two of my deputies kidnapped Julie Cravens? Who? Who did it? I want to know, because the first thing I plan to do is put them under arrest.”
“No need for that, Sheriff.”
“What do you mean, no need for it? If they kidnapped the girl, of course they will be put under arrest. And they will be tried.”
“I said there is no need for it, because I’ve already tried both of them. I found them guilty, and I executed them.”
“You—you executed them?” Sheriff Poindexter replied, emphasizing the word “executed.”
“In a manner of speaking, I did. They both fired at me, and I returned fire. They missed, but I didn’t.”
“Who were they?”
“Hamilton and Toombs.”
Poindexter shook his head. “I could have guessed,” he said. “Nothing but troublemakers, those two were. Where are they now?”
“I moved their bodies into the shack to keep them away from the critters.”
“You just wasted your time,” Poindexter said. “They’ll be food for the worms pretty soon now anyway, so you may as well have let the coyotes and buzzards get a head start on them. I’ll get Sharp and Peters out there to bring them back.”
“That’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“That you didn’t ask me where the shack was.”
It took Poindexter a moment to realize the significance of what Falcon had just said, and he frowned and pointed a finger at Falcon. “MacCallister, I don’t like you. You got off on the wrong foot with me, and, U.S. Deputy Marshal or not, me ’n’ you are going to have an accounting someday. And that day may come sooner than you think.”
“I sincerely hope so,” Falcon replied calmly.
Julie Cravens Safely Returned
GIRL HAS HARROWING TALE TO TELL
Deputy United States Marshal Falcon MacCallister, who is also the Sorrento City Marshal, brought back to the arms of her loving parents, the young daughter of our esteemed mayor.
Young Miss Cravens states that she was awakened at shortly after four o’clock of the morning on two days previous. After being forced to be quiet on pain of seeing her parents murdered before her very eyes, the brigands who came in the middle of the night took her prisoner.
The most shocking thing of this story, dear readers, is the identity of the two kidnappers. They were Harry Toombs and Lou Hamilton. Yes, the same two who swore an oath to protect the people they serve, when they pinned on the badges of deputy sheriff.
Sheriff Poindexter has disavowed any association with the two brigands herein mentioned. There is no need for Judge Dawes to issue warrants pursuant to the arrest of Toombs and Hamilton, their final accounting now being given before He who will one day judge us all. Both Toombs and Hamilton fell victim to the accurate shooting of Marshal MacCallister. When he effected the rescue, a short but deadly gun battle took place, during which balls, energized by Marshal MacCallister, snuffed out the lives of Toombs and Hamilton. This newspaper applauds the action of Marshal MacCallister, and condemns Sheriff Poindexter for not more properly vetting those whom he has deputized.
“Did you order that done?” Judge Dawes asked Sheriff Poindexter.
“I didn’t order it. It was an idea that the deputies came up with on their own.”
“But you made no effort to stop them.”
“No. It seemed like a good idea to me. And it worked; Mayor Cravens issued an executive order repealing the ordinances.”
“And he has since rescinded that order. The ordinances are once more in force.”
“I also didn’t expect MacCallister to get involved. I thought he was just a city marshal. I had no idea that he was also a Deputy U.S. Marshal.”
“We need to get rid of MacCallister,” Judge Dawes said.
“How are we going to do that?”
“We need to get rid of MacCallister,” Judge Dawes repeated, this time slowly and distinctly.
“Have you got any ideas in mind?”
“What do you know about a man named Loomis Drago?” Judge Dawes asked.
“Drago? You mean the bounty hunter?”
“That’s who I mean.”
“I’ve heard of him, of course. I expect nearly everyone has heard of him.”
“If he knew there was a high enough reward on MacCallister’s head, he might be persuaded to try and collect.”
“Reward? What reward?”
“The five-thousand-dollar reward I’m putting on him for killing two sheriff’s deputies.”
“Judge, where are we going to get five thousand dollars?”
“You know where we will get it.”
“Judge, that’s all we can afford. You plan to spend it all to get rid of MacCallister?”
“Which is worth more to you? The money we got from the stage holdup, or your life?”
“Well, I guess if you put it that way.”
“We can always get more money, Sheriff. We can’t get another life.”
“All right, I see your point. And you think Drago can do the job for us?”
“I do. Mail this letter,” Dawes said, handing Poindexter an envelope, already addressed and sealed. “This will inform Drago that the reward has not yet been made public. That will give him exclusive access.”
Poindexter looked at the addressee. “This ain’t to Drago. This is to some judge down in Laredo.”
“He is a retired judge, actually,” Dawes said. “He will get the message to Drago.”
Hank Owens rode into the sleepy little border town of El Indio, slowly, sizing it up as he did so. The north side of the town was the American side. It was made up of whipsawed lumber shacks with unpainted, splitting wood turning gray. The south side of town was the Mexican end of town, and it was dominated by sand-colored adobe buildings. There was one, rather substantial-looking, brick building with a sign over the door that identified it as the COMMERCE BANK. Owens figured the bank might offer some promise. He would spend a couple of days in town, checking it out.
Owens rode up to the hitching rail in front of the Border saloon. Dismounting, he patted his tan duster a few times, sending up puffs of gray-white dust, then he walked inside. He found a quiet place at the end of the bar, ordered a beer, and then began formulating a plan for robbing the bank.
At the other end of the bar a dark-haired, dark-eyed man tossed his whiskey down, then ran his finger over the scar that stretched from his right eye down to his chin. This was Loomis Drago, and he had recognized Owens from the moment Owens walked in. The last paper he had seen on Owens said he was worth five hundred dollars. Drago was low on cash right now, and five hundred dollars sounded pretty good.
“Would your name be Hank Owens?” Drago called.
Owens didn’t look up from his beer.
“I asked you a question, mister. Would your name be Hank Owens? I’m askin’ you real nice, and I expect an answer.”
Drago’s voice was loud and authoritative, and everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge implied in its timbre. All other conversations ceased, and the drinkers at the bar backed away so that there was nothing but clear space between Drago and Owens. Even the bartender left his position behind the bar.
Owens looked up from his beer. “You expect an answer, do you?”
“I do.”
“Here’s your answer. I’m not who you think I am. You’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”
“I don’t think so. I know who you are. I’ve seen paper on you. You’re a bank robber and a murderer.”
“If you think you know who I am, why did you bother to ask?”
“Because I wanted to be sure.”
“Well, you can’t be sure, can you? ’Cause I’m tellin’ you, I’m not who you think I am.”
“I’m sure enough that I’ll be takin’ you to the local sheriff for the reward.”
Owens wiped the beer foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “Mister, that’s big talk, unless you think you can back it up.”
“I reckon I can back it up,” Drago said.
“How do you propose to do that?”
“I propose to kill you, then collect the five hundred dollars that’s offered for your carcass,” Drago said. The words came easily, as if spoken by a man of supreme confidence.
Owens set his beer mug down, then stepped away from the bar. He flipped his duster back so that his gun was exposed. He was wearing it low and kicked out, the way a man wears a gun when he knows how to use it.
“You’ve got a big mouth, mister,” Owens said. “I reckon it’s about time you and me got this thing settled.”
Drago stepped away from the bar as well. Like Owens, Drago wore his gun low and kicked out.
“What might your name be, mister?” Owens asked.
Drago smiled at him. “The name is Drago,” he said. “Loomis Drago.”
Up until now, Owens had been cool and confident in dealing with this barfly. But when he heard the name “Drago,” his manner changed sharply. He had heard of Loomis Drago, who some called the devil’s acolyte because of his tendency to send outlaws to hell.
Drago noticed the sudden change in Owen’s demeanor, and he smiled, a cold, evil smile. That fear had just given him the edge he counted on. “Well, now, unless I miss my guess, I’d say you’ve heard of me.”
Owens no longer had a stomach for conversation. He was fast and had won many previous shoot-outs, but he had never come up against anyone like Drago before. He knew his only chance was to make a sudden and unexpected draw, and that is exactly what he did, pulling his pistol in the blink of an eye.
For just the blink of an eye he thought it might have worked, but Drago had his own pistol out a split-second faster, pulling the hammer back and firing in one fluid motion. In the close confines of the barroom, the gunshot sounded like a clap of thunder.
Owens’s eyes grew wide with surprise at how fast Drago had his gun up and firing. Drago’s shot caught Owens in the chest, and he fell. The still unfired pistol clattered to the floor and slid away from him. He stretched his arm out toward the gun, but Drago stepped on his hand, then smiled down at him as the life faded from Owens’s eyes. Drago reholstered his pistol and turned back to the bartender.
“I just earned myself five hunnert dollars,” he said. “I reckon I’ll spend some of it, setting up drinks for ever’one in the bar.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Drago,” the bartender replied, and, with a happy shout, everyone in the saloon rushed to the bar to give their order.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Having responded to the letter, Loomis Drago came to Sorrento and was now sitting in Sheriff Poindexter’s office.
“With a reward this high, how come there is no paper out on this man?” Drago was rolling a quirley.
Judge Dawes was also in the office, and he answered Drago’s question.
“It’s a rather tricky situation. He is the town marshal.”
“The town marshal, and he is a wanted man?”
“Not in the traditional sense. Let’s say that his status is more narrowly constructed than that of the normal fugitive,” Judge Dawes said.
“Judge, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about,” Drago said. “Is there a five-thousand-dollar reward out for him or not?”
“In a manner of speaking there is. But the reward has not been made public. Only you are aware of it.”
“How come you ain’t makin’ it public?”
“Because I thought you might be able to handle it better if nobody else got in your way. You have a, let us say, unique method of bringing in the men you go after.”
Drago lit the cigarette he had just rolled, then spoke around the puff of smoke. “It ain’t all that unique. If a feller is wanted dead or alive, then it’s easier to bring ’em in dead.”
“Yes,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “You might say that’s why we think you would be very good for this job.”
Drago smiled. “I’ll be damn. You want the son of a bitch dead, don’t you?”
“To put it bluntly, yes. But it is worth five thousand dollars, and as a sitting judge, I can guarantee you will not be prosecuted for killing him.”
“Who is this Falcon MacCallister? I’ve never heard of him.”
“It’s not likely that you would have heard of him,” Poindexter said. “He’s pretty much of a nobody.”
“If he’s a nobody, why are you willing to pay me five thousand dollars to kill him?”
“He has become an impediment to good order in Scott County.”
“All right, you can quit frettin’ about it. I’ll take care of him. Where will I find him?”
“He is the town marshal,” Judge Dawes said. “How hard can it be to find a man who is walking around town with a star on his chest?”
Drago nodded. “All right, I’ll find ’im, and I’ll kill ’im for you.”
Poindexter waited until Drago left, then he turned to Deputy Russell. “Al?”
“Yeah?”
“You go back him up.”
Russell went over to the rifle rack and took out a Winchester. “If I’m going to back him up, I ain’t goin’ to be real close while I’m doin’ it.”
Drago’s opportunity came that same afternoon. He was in the Brown Dirt Cowboy, playing cards with three others, when Falcon MacCallister came into the saloon. Drago knew who MacCallister was because he was greeted by several of the saloon patrons. But just to make certain, he asked the others who were at his table.
“Is that MacCallister?”
“Yes, he’s our new city marshal,” one of the men said. “And he is a real Jim Dandy, too.”
The owner of the saloon was a woman named Big Tit Hannah. In her youth, she had been a very successful whore, aided in her avocation by that part of her anatomy that had earned her the sobriquet. She moved over to the bar to stand beside Falcon.
“Jimmy, the first drink for the marshal is on me,” she said. Then she turned to Falcon. “And before you refuse, this doesn’t have anything to do with giving you free drinks because you’re a lawman. This has to do with what you did for the mayor’s daughter.”
“All right,” Falcon replied with a smile. “In that case I’ll accept. I’ll have a beer, Jimmy.”
“Yes, sir, one beer coming up.”
“Why are they taking on over him like that? What makes him so special?” Drago asked the others he was playing cards with.
“Well, to start with, the judge and the sheriff was bleeding us all dry from taxes, and MacCallister stopped it,” one of the players said.
“And then, two of the sheriff’s deputies kidnapped the mayor’s daughter, and MacCallister not only found her, he killed the two deputies, then brought her back.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying he killed two sheriff’s de
puties? How come he isn’t in jail?”
“Because them was two of the most no-account bastards you ever seen. Remember, they had just kidnapped a girl.”
“I’ll tell you how no acount they were,” one of the other players said. “When they brung ’em back into town and buried ’em out at the cemetery, there wasn’t a soul who showed up for the buryin’ except for the grave digger that works for Nunnelee.”
“Yeah, not even the sheriff showed up.”
“You folks talk about him like he’s some big hero or something,” Drago said.
“In my book, he is.”
Drago stood up, then walked over to stand at the opposite end of the bar from Falcon. “Whiskey,” he said.
The bartender poured a glass, and Drago tossed it down in one quick swallow. Then he turned toward Falcon.
“MacCallister?” he called.
His voice was loud and challenging, so much so that it got the attention of everyone else in the saloon. All conversation stopped as everyone looked toward the man who had just called out.
“Miss Hannah, I’ve got a feeling you should step away,” Falcon said.
Hannah moved quickly to get out of the way, as did all the others who had been standing at the bar. Jimmy, the bartender, moved out from behind the bar.
“Do you have something on your mind, mister?” Falcon asked.
“Folks around here are tellin’ me that you are a hero. You are a hero because you killed a couple of men. Are you a hero, Mr. MacCallister?”
Falcon didn’t respond.
“Well, I’ve killed a few myself,” Drago continued. “So I guess that makes me a hero, too.”
Falcon remained silent.
“Let me introduce myself to you, Mister MacCallister. My name is Loomis Drago.”
Drago had not introduced himself at the table where he had been playing cards, and this was the first time anyone in the saloon had heard his name. There was an immediate reaction to it.
“Drago? You mean we was playin’ cards with Loomis Drago?” one of the cardplayers asked, his voice reflecting his awe.
“They say he has killed nineteen men,” another said.
Carnage of Eagles Page 21
